


Decisions

by Annaelle



Series: Unbecoming Everything You Are Not [3]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Loki's a little hurt, M/M, Multi, Oops, Post-Thor: The Dark World, and not dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-09-02 09:06:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16783927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annaelle/pseuds/Annaelle
Summary: The air itself still tasted of electricity and the stench of burnt ozone lingered in his nostrils.He was – mercifully – astonishingly – absurdly… alive.-- Loki, post-DW, tries to figure out how to continue to remain not-dead.





	1. The One Where Loki Is... Somehow Alive

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! 
> 
> Welcome to the first interlude between Never Feel Alone and the next multichaptered work in the series, named Another Chance. These oneshots will show you some snapshots of our characters lives, establish their routines and relationships, and generally have a different pace than the longer fic :) 
> 
> Before you begin reading, I'd like to remind you that Thor and Loki grew up as a betrothed couple in this AU, that thought Loki was born to a high-society Asgardian family before they found out about his true nature. They never thought of themselves as brothers or both Odin's sons at any point, though they do refer to each other as brother sometimes. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Much Love, Annaelle
> 
> PS If I forgot to tag anything, let me know!

#  The One Where Becca Makes a Promise

## Decisions Are The Hardest Thing To Make,  
Especially When It Is a Choice Between  
Where You Should Be  
And Where You Want to Be

## —Author Unknown

**Greenwich, London, UK  
October 2nd, 2011**

**Loki**

The air itself still tasted of electricity and the stench of burnt ozone lingered in his nostrils.

He was – mercifully – astonishingly – absurdly… _alive_.

The memory of those last few moments on Svartalfheim were clouded with pain, but he vaguely recalled how the salt of his tears had tasted on Thor’s lips, and how only regret had filtered through his mind, before contentment had overtaken him as his consciousness faded.

He’d been _relieved_ , for at least death meant no more glass cages and no more gilded prison bars on his windows and door.

It meant a sense of freedom which life as Odin’s second son had never awarded him.

He was _alive_ , though miserable and in a _lot_ of pain, and he surely wouldn’t remain so for very long if he did not receive the aid he so desperately needed soon.

Asgardian sorcery was potent, but it had its limits.

Malekith and his ilk had wielded an ancient form of sorcery, perverted and twisted to suit their malicious means, and it _festered_ beneath Loki’s skin, burning through whatever latent spells Odin had weaved to hide his true appearance, leaving him with icy blue skin and undoubtedly blood red eyes.

Had he been at full strength, it would have been possible—though perhaps not _easy_ —to heal himself from the damage that had been done to him, but as it stood, his strength lay with illusion, not healing.

It had been his moth—

No. He rapidly jerked his thoughts from such painful territory and shook his head.

He could not afford to lose what little control he retained—could not let himself succumb to his grief.

Not yet.

Miraculously, he was no longer on Svartalfheim—he had been freed from a cursed existence on its ashen surface—but instead he found himself somewhere on Midgard, apparently, and undoubtedly not very far from where his brother and Malekith were wreaking havoc upon one another.

The wound on his chest had not killed him, as he believed it had when he’d lost consciousness in Thor’s arms, but it ached still, and pulsed blood in small trickles.

“Norns,” he swore, shakily heaving himself up onto his elbows on the hard concrete beneath him.

His leathers were, tragically, torn beyond repair, and his skin was a deep shade of blue, with the edges of the wound starting to turn purple with infection. The reserves of his strength were pathetically sparse, and he could no more summon his magic than he could turn back time.

Loki slumped back down and shut his eyes, drawing a deep breath of air into his lungs, willing his mind to work faster, to regain its former potency so he could devise his next step.

He slipped in and out of consciousness a few times, slumped in whatever dark corner he’d been deposited. The sun was gone when he next woke, and he’d stopped bleeding, at least. He felt much steadier, and his mind felt less clouded by pain and disorientation.

His body appeared to have partially healed itself while he slumbered, because the wound looked several days old rather than fresh and lethal, as it had only hours earlier.

Loki was doing better—and, possibly, he was even out of direct harm’s way—but he was in no shape to defend himself, should it come to that. He would have to identify a safe haven in this Norn-forsaken realm; find a place he could go to ground to heal and to plan. The little alley he had woken in might provide a sense of cover and privacy, but it was hardly a sensible sanctuary—for instance, he was within hearing range of whatever battle still raged, and though no one had yet intruded upon his little alcove, it did not mean no one would.

There were, unfortunately, not many places he could hide on Thor’s beloved Midgard.

The gifts his mother had bestowed upon him were, thankfully, intact and well within his reach, and it was damnably easy to sink into a trance, seeking the farsight Frigga had passed to him through her teachings. Loki may have been mocked and ridiculed—mostly with whispered insults behind Thor’s back, to avoid the God of Thunder’s wrath—for preferring his mother’s teachings of _seidr_ to training with Thor and the other noble boys, but it aided him well.

 _Seidr_ had kept him alive many a time before, and Loki was quite certain it would now as well.

His plea to show him safety was met only with a strong urge to find his brother, who stood lonely, and bright and _blazing_ on a square only yards from where Loki was hidden. He gasped, barely resisting the urge to call to him; to beg for Thor to find him and protect him—though Loki was _certain_ he would.

He _could_ not.

He could not return. He could not tell Thor of his survival.

Odin had deemed him disposable and despicable, and he would stop at nothing to hunt him down. _Thanos_ , too, was still out there, unforgiving and cruel, and he would not have forgotten Loki’s—somewhat deliberate—failure to obtain the Tesseract for him. Thanos, more so than even Odin, would tear the universe apart—including Thor—to punish Loki for his betrayal.

Yes… It would suit him much better to remain dead, for now.

No matter how it would break his Thor’s heart.

Better a broken heart than one void of life altogether.

It took considerable strength to push past Thor’s luminous aura, but Loki was nothing if not experienced at ignoring his brother-betrothed’s alluring presence.

He would miss him.

He regretted, perhaps, keeping Thor at arm’s length for as long as he had. He had done so with the best intentions, he rationalised, trying to keep Thor from tiring of him before they’d even exchanged blades. Loki knew their friends had been making bets on the bruð-hlaup already, and that there had been an entire contingent of royal servants dedicated to planning his nuptials to Thor.

Marrying Thor had seemed inevitable his entire life, and while he was certainly not opposed—even if his brother-betrothed had turned out to be an insufferable prat, Loki would have gotten a throne out of the deal—it _had_ been overwhelming sometimes, to know his entire life had been planned for him.

He supposed he had been fortunate enough with his betrothed.

Thor was disgustingly devoted to him, and while it suited Loki very well to be worshipped, Thor’s particular brand of affection was rather suffocating at times. It’d suited him much better, once he’d allowed himself a taste, to keep Thor at a bit of an arm’s length.

He hadn’t been _happy_ about Thor’s gaze straying, but he had been practical enough to understand Thor would _always_ return to him. It had been enough.

The memory of it would have to suffice from now on.

The stark, blinding light that represented Thor in his mind’s eye receded and left but a humble few trustworthy individuals in its wake, one standing out from others.

Loki was hardly surprised.

“The Captain,” he mused. “Of course.”

He had but met the man briefly while in his right mind, but he had gathered quite a bit from Thor’s distracted ramblings when he visited. The man stood as a paragon of truth and justice on Midgard, and even Asgard had heard of the man and taken notice.

Of course, Loki considered, much of said notice had been born of genuine curiosity to meet the first Midgardian to walk Asgardian grounds in centuries—to see the Midgardian who stood alive in only _lìkami_ and _munr_ , absent _hugr._ The ability to sense another being’s soul was one born of the _seidr_ that ran inherent in his blood, but even the most incompetent of Asgardians—and Jotuns, for that matter—stood capable of doing so.

There were tales of souls and bodies walking in separate skins in Asgardian lore and literature, but to find a being that had survived the loss of its _soul_ … the strength of will needed to survive such calamity was immense… very nearly inconceivable.

And yet Thor’s Captain—a mere mortal—had somehow done it.

Thor had not elaborated on the Captain’s tale, as far as Loki knew—not even to him. The evidence, however, was plain to see for all who cared to look.

It stood to reason he would prove to be the only one beside Loki’s brother-betrothed that would stand strong enough to protect him while he recovered. It was damnably simple to find his way to Thor’s Captain’s lodgings once his farsight had shown him the man, despite Loki’s pitiful state.

The chambers he found himself in were dreadfully small, he noted with absent disdain, especially considering he knew the Captain _shared_ these chambers with another. Loki’s own chambers back in the palace in Asgard were _much_ grander and infinitely more luxurious—but then, Loki supposed, he _was_ the second Prince of Asgard, and its future co-regent.

Still.

He wrinkled his nose and took in the—thankfully clean—state of the apartment. It was hardly bigger than the cell they’d had him in for the duration of his trial on Asgard.

There _was_ , at least, unlike in his cell, a cushioned sofa, and he could not quite suppress the groan of relief that fell from his lips when he sank into its soft pillows. His entire body ached unlike it ever had before; a deep and unnatural ache that only the cursed weapons of the Dark Elves were capable of inflicting.

He relished, briefly, in the knowledge that he was safe from harm—at least for the immediate future.

He had not been so far gone that he could not hide himself from Heimdall’s ever-piercing gaze, thankfully, so he ascertained he was still safe from his father’s wrath, should the man ever learn that Loki had escaped his supposed fate yet again.

He rolled his eyes.

Almighty Odin, so self-important and pompous. Loki only felt the fool for not having seen through the endless charade _centuries_ ago—Odin had never been fair or just towards him.

Loki could see now that Odin had never truly intended to allow the match between him and Thor, no matter how they themselves felt about it. He had not allowed himself to consider his relationship with Thor for some time—had not since he had learned of his true parentage, and had seen his future and the life he thought he’d lead go up in smoke—but he did now. He allowed himself a moment to think of the life he’d once—and yes, _still_ —wanted and to mourn it, for he could see no future—no plausible way—wherein he would get to live the life he’d wanted to lead with Thor.

Loki exhaled shakily and dropped his head back against the cushions, staring at the ceiling desolately.

He would miss his brother, like a physical _ache,_ but all made sacrifices for those that they loved, and Loki, despite everything he had done to prove the contrary, _loved_ Thor.

He was unsure how long he sat, comfortably enveloped by the soft cushions, before he sensed a being approaching the apartment. He did not bother to extend much attention towards said approach, certain that it was the Captain returning home after aiding his brother in the inevitable defeat of Malekith—and exacting vengeance for their mother.

As such, he stood astonished when the lock on the entrance clicked and swung open, revealing not the Captain, but the female companion he shared this home with.

Loki froze, as did the woman on the doorstep, pale eyes finding his unerringly, despite the relative darkness shrouding the room. He supposed he must’ve looked frightening—blue skin and red eyes and fingernails crested with dried blood—and he, admittedly, only stayed out of sheer curiosity to see what she would do. Many humans would have run screaming already, but this woman—this slip of a girl—merely glared at him suspiciously, discreetly slipping her hand into her coat pocket to reach for what Loki assumed was a concealed Midgardian weapon.

“No need for such methods,” he said dully. “If I meant you harm, you would already be dead, child.”

Her hand stalled in her pocket, and she squinted at him suspiciously. “Loki? You’re supposed to be dead,” she said accusingly.

Loki snorted and smiled. “And you are supposed to be the Captain. I assure you, we both stand disappointed.”

He blinked blearily when she abruptly turned on the lights, looking at him in something vaguely resembling shock before she replied, “I’m not _disappointed_ , you dick. Thor is _devastated_ —he’ll be overjoyed to hear you’re alive…” and eyed the—frankly disgusting, if he did say so himself—wound on his chest. “…if not entirely well.”

“I suppose he would be,” Loki acknowledged with a tilt of his head, before turning his attention to the injury on his chest. “Now. I don’t suppose you are well-versed in medicinal arts?”

“I—” the dark-haired woman blinked at him. “What?”

Loki hissed in frustration, pressing his fingers against the ragged edges of the wound, clenching his teeth as he spat, “I seek your aid, you insufferable mortal.” He exhaled raggedly, eyes slipping closed as he tried to quell the nausea that welled up because of the pain. “Thor trusts the Captain,” he finally continued, albeit shakily. “I suppose, by extension, he trusts you as well.”

The Norns would not have brought Loki here, would not have allowed him to survive this amount of torment and hurt to abandon him now. If they brought the girl onto his path, it meant she had a part to play in his life, however brief it might be. He fell silent again, allowing himself another moment to grieve what might have been before pasting on a mask of cold indifference.

“And I, despite evidence to the contrary, trust him,” he said loftily, raising an eyebrow at her, though the effect was ruined by the rattling cough that burst from his lips a moment later, his expression twisting into one of agony.

“Christ,” the mortal choked, rushing towards him, nearly flinching away from him when her hands made contact with cold, icy skin. “What the hell happened to you?” She helped him sit back up gingerly, and Loki chuckled humourlessly and eyed her contemplatively before he shrugged and replied, “I got in a minor disagreement with a Dark Elf.”

“ _Minor_?!” she exclaimed as he moved his hand to reveal the long, deep wound. “Holy _fuck_ , if this is what happens during a minor disagreement, I don’t wanna know what full-on fights are like. What the hell did you do to piss him off?”

Her hands moved swiftly in spite of her apparent shock, helping Loki shrug out of the elaborate clothing he was wearing to reveal the pale skin of his chest and the full extent of the wound.

“God,” she breathed, eyes wide and looking slightly green around the gills as she looked at the serrated edges of the wound, where his skin was already turning to a violent shade of red and purple. “Loki, I don’t think I’m qualified to—”

“He was going to kill Thor,” Loki interrupted quietly, pressing his hand over hers where it lay against his chest. “I stopped him, but I—”

He broke off and swallowed thickly, looking away as he collected himself. He had not meant to reveal such weakness before the woman, but there was something distractingly earnest in her demeanour. If he were the kind of man to trust in another, he would certainly feel comfortable divulging his thoughts to her. As it stood, he did not think he had much _choice_ in who he would voice his thoughts to.

It was not, he reasoned, as if he would allow her the memory of their conversation anyway.

He allowed himself to share his fears.

“I thought I was going to die,” he finally admitted in a small voice. “And I was _relieved_. I was so relieved I wouldn’t die locked up in Odin’s glorified _prison cell_ , that I was _free_ …” It was the deepest secret his heart held, and one he had not intended to give voice to _ever_ —but it needed to be spoken aloud.

"Obviously I didn’t die,” he finally said, with forced levity, deliberately ignoring the sharp burn of tears in his eyes. “But I have no desire to return to my gilded cage on Asgard, so…” 

The human woman was quiet for a moment more, pale blue eyes like the skies on Jotunheim searching his own before she replied. “Well, you’re safe here. I don’t know how much help I’ll be with—” she waved her hand at the nasty wound and wrinkled her nose. “—all of that, but I’ll try. You’ll be safe and welcome here until I can get a message to Steve and Thor.”

“No!” Loki squawked, jerking away from her touch abruptly, fingers clenching and unclenching against her wrist. “No, you mustn’t tell Thor I am alive! No one can know!” He had planned on altering her memories of the night as soon as he was able, but that would do him no good if she contacted his oaf of a brother-betrothed before he could do so.

“He’s going to want to know,” she said slowly, frowning a little at his—undoubtedly—panicked expression. “I can’t really lie to him about something like this.” While she spoke, she carefully cleaned the wound with a foul-smelling transparent potion that stung where it touched his skin, gently attempting to gauge the depth of the wound while she did.

Every touch of her fingers on his skin _burned_.

“You won’t have to,” he panted, a thin sheen of sweat covering his brow and nose. “Just help me care for this and I’ll be on my way.”

“You can barely _sit up_ ,” she pointed out dryly when his elbows nearly gave out from beneath him. “I don’t know how you think you’re going to be walking out of here any time soon, but I’m telling you, it’s not happening.” She shoved him back into the couch cushions none too gently and glared at him.

Loki smiled despite himself, conceding the point for the moment and letting the young mortal fuss over the gaping wound in silence. She was a most intriguing conundrum. Something in her eyes spoke of inherent strength, a backbone stronger than steel, but her hands were tender against his wounds, and he knew his brother had been most impressed by her when they met.

Whatever role she had yet to play in his existence, surely it would extend beyond his brother-betrothed’s lustful ideas for the woman?

He’d been subjected to many a rant when Thor fancied himself enamoured with another, and he had learned to distinguish Thor’s genuine interest from simple lust centuries ago. His brother may have only spoken to this mortal woman a few times—surely not enough times to catch her attention—but the interest had been there when he had spoken of her.

Loki was uncertain if Thor himself was even aware of it.

“I suppose I see the appeal,” he mused aloud, watching the human that had caught his brother’s attention closely. Loki supposed she was attractive, if one liked that sort of thing. Mortals, that is. “You are quite beautiful, for a human.”

He didn’t elaborate, blinking innocently at her when she looked up at him in confusion.

He could not say what had prompted him to speak the words, but now that they had been spoken, he would not—could not—take them back. He had begun planting a seed, and he would see it to fruition, no matter the cost.

Loki was, of course, not a charitable god by nature.

He was not one for sentiment or overt affection, and found it much easier to forgo such connections altogether—but he was not indifferent towards Thor. He had tried to achieve such indifference many times, in myriad ways, and all equally unsuccessful.

Thor had, somehow, burrowed himself beneath Loki’s skin, and it certainly appeared he was there to stay. To survive, Loki supposed he would have to relinquish his grip upon Thor’s heart—it would be entirely unfair and unrealistic to hold Thor to a vow he’d made to a dead man. He supposed giving this mortal woman a nudge towards his oaf of a brother was the least he could do for him.

“You better not be trying to flirt,” she said warningly, poking at his uninjured shoulder. “I’m too gay for your shit, pal.” Loki snorted a laugh, but briefly considered her words. If she were, as she stated, attracted to her own gender, it would be difficult to nudge her towards his brother.

He laughed, though, genuinely and delightedly, finding himself grinning at the sheer _nerve_ of this girl. “You are _brassy_ too,” he chuckled. “No wonder my brother is so taken with you.”

 _That_ , clearly, threw her for a loop.

Her hands stilled on his chest, and her eyes were wide with abject surprise. “Thor isn’t… _taken_ with me,” she said incredulously. “He barely knows me. We met like three times,” she insisted, her voice taking on a slightly more hysterical edge by the end of her sentence.

Loki merely chuckled at her, recognising the hint of intrigue in her eye all too easily—not so gay she would reject his brother outright, then, it seemed. “I have been subjected to those he likes to bed for centuries, child.” Loki smiled wanly. “I know the look in his eye when he is interested.”

“I’m not a child,” she said, affronted, shoving at his shoulder lightly when she finished applying a bandage to the shallowest part of his wound.

Loki snorted, recognising the deflection for what it was, but allowing it. “You are to me.”

“Really?” She raised an eyebrow at him. “We’re gonna go there? Last time I checked, you’re what—half a century younger than Thor? Which means you’re around a thousand years old, which, to be fair, is pretty insane if you’re looking at it from a human point of view.”

Loki merely blinked at her, intrigued.

“For an Asgardian though,” she shrugged and smiled playfully. “You’re painfully young, still. In fact, I think, if I cared enough to calculate, you’d be in your late teens, _maybe_ early twenties in human years. And really, which one of us threw a tantrum so bad it involved mass destruction last time they didn’t get what they wanted?”

The corner of Loki’s eye twitched—wholly involuntarily—and he could tell she was biting back a smile.

“Really,” she grinned, “when you think about it… Which one of us is the child again?”

Loki knew the surprise he felt showed on his face—because no one had _ever_ dared to speak to him quite so boldly—before he burst into laughter once again, shaking his head with a wry grin. “Well played, little human,” he nodded. “Well played.”

She preened a little before she turned her attention back to the wound she had—quite efficiently, if Loki did say so himself—cleaned. “I’m gonna have to do stitches in this,” she sighed, poking at the edges of the deepest parts of the injury. Loki winced and frowned, unfamiliar with the term, cocking an eyebrow at her when she looked up at him with an entirely apologetic expression.

The term rapidly became clear when she scampered off to what Loki presumed was the kitchen and returned with an archaic suture kit. He looked up at her in horror, shaking his head decisively. Such methods had not been used in Asgard in centuries, and he would not be subjected to such uncivilized remedial practices.

“Oh, shut up, you big baby,” the mortal grumbled when he told her so, settling down beside him again and unpacking the kit with practised precision. “I’m not gonna do it without anaesthetic. It’s not gonna be fun, but…” she shrugged and raised a questioning eyebrow at him, and Loki had to admire her grit.

Not many would have the gumption to tell a god to shut his mouth.

“Such hoary practice,” Loki huffed, though he allowed her to numb the area where she would be sewing his skin back together without much protest.

“Maybe,” the girl groused, glaring up at him. “But this is the best I’ve got, so it’ll have to do.”

While he was not a queasy man, he did look away when she slipped the needle through his skin. It did not hurt, as she had sworn, but he had no desire to see his skin being sewn together as though it were mere fabric in the hands of Asgard’s worst seamstress.

He turned his attention inward instead, dipping into the pool of farsight that lay tempting and dangerous in the back of his mind for the second time that day. Many who possessed the gift had gone mad in the aftermath of the glimpses it provided, had lost their minds attempting to decipher whatever images farsight had shown them.

Loki was, as such, wary to use the gift his mother had passed to him too often, but in this situation, it was the only gift he could control at all.

It was also a decent distraction from the Midgardian’s crude version of modern medicine.

The world felt _muted_ when he dipped into the farsight, the edges blurred out like an oil canvas that had been smudged when its paint was still wet. When manipulated properly, farsight could show him many things. Things that were, things that are, and some things that had not yet come to pass.

The farsight he had been given by his mother was not unlike the tremendous gifts the great Heimdall himself had been born with, though much less potent. It was a little like a particularly tempting stimulant, and it aided in silencing the cacophony of noise in Loki’s head like nothing else. The sights he saw while in the trance and the sounds he heard did not always leave a lasting impression – some were fleeting as leaves in the wind – but there were those that impacted him beyond any other event in his admittedly hectic life.

He did not expect to see such sights while he drifted in the Sight as his brother’s potential new favourite mortal stitched him back together, but he could feel a sense of urgency behind the vague impressions he was shown – a looming shadow, threatening and frightening but unmoving, a flash of golden eyes and _heat_ , bright and blinding and so strong it split into different pieces and spread out, threatening to drag him along with them.

“Loki?”

His eyes snapped open and he choked, briefly disoriented by the rough withdrawal from his farsight.

He coughed, violently and shakily, and for a moment he thought he was in Asgard, in his own chambers, with Thor only a single wall away. It took him a moment to realise that the hands on his shoulders were too small and too delicate to be his oaf of a brother-betrothed’s, and another to remember how he had ended up in her apartment.

“Are you alright?” she asked concernedly, keeping her hands pressed to his shoulders until she seemed certain he would not keel over should she let go.

“Quite,” Loki rasped. He looked up at the woman who had essentially saved his life and found himself somewhat surprised to feel a tendril of regret. He had a clear plan now, and he could not afford to have Thor running amok trying to find him – he could not risk _everything_.

“I do apologise for this,” he said, taking advantage of her confusion to thrust his hand forward until he made contact with her forehead, coils of his magic already slipping into her mind, sifting through her memories to alter and erase, wiping every memory of their encounter from her mind. It did not take long, and when he withdrew, she dropped as though she were a puppet whose strings were cut, eyes rolling back in her head.

For reasons he could not name, he caught her and laid her on the sofa he had previously occupied. The time she had spent cleaning and mending his wound had clearly given his magical reserves enough time to minimally replenish themselves, and he _relished_ in being able to erase every trace of his presence in the apartment with a mere flick of his fingers.

He mended his leathers in the same gesture, stroking his fingers across the surface of his chest, unmarred and smooth, as though he’d never been injured at all. 

He paused, briefly, before he left, eyes falling to the mortal he had left slumbering on the sofa.

“I owe you a debt,” he spoke quietly, knowing that her subconsciousness would hear, understand, and file away the words for later. “When you have need of me, call my name.”


	2. Sequel Notification

The first chapter for the sequel to this little monster is now up! 

Thanks for your continued support, darlings! See you there :D 

Love, Annaelle

**Author's Note:**

> Much love to my darling Juuls, for sticking with me through this :D


End file.
